


Underworld

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Gangsters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-17
Updated: 2003-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underworld

He'd still been a kid when he started working with Colin. He'd stumbled into the business by chance, met Colin by chance, and it worked so well that he didn't see any reason to stop. Nearly twenty five years later and he still had no desire to change.

The truck, laden with electronics, would pass by soon. Ryan lit a cigarette. They'd pulled over by the side of the road; when everything else was taken care of, Colin would dispose of the car.

Colin shifted in the passenger seat. Ryan touched his watch; the interior of the car glowed green for a second. "Maybe you should get out, Col." He didn't turn his head away from the road. His fingers were coiled tightly around the steering wheel. His throat was tight and dry. "How long do you think he'll be, ten minutes?"

"Don't know." Colin got out of the car and shut the door. He shambled towards the middle of the road and stood, hands hanging by his sides. Ryan could imagine his expression: placid and expectant. The thought of Colin's face calmed him.

The truck's headlights lit up the road. Ryan heard the horn blare. There was a screeching of brakes.

"Thank God," Colin said. "My car broke down."

"What the fuck you doing standing out in the middle of the road?"

"Only way someone was going to stop, I figured."

"I guess. What's wrong?"

"Fuck, I don't know. Damn thing just died on me."

"Lemme look." The driver was a Good Samaritan, thank God. The car's hood was open. It served to hide Ryan nicely.

He heard footsteps, Colin' s plodding step and the driver's quick purposeful one.

"Hey, I don't see anything wrong here-"

He heard the click of the gun's hammer as Colin drew. "It's probably better if you don't move," Colin said. Pleasant. Amiable. They should've called Colin Mr. Rogers.

Ryan got out of the car, drawing his own gun. The driver was stocky, broad-faced. His expression was stupid with shock. Colin had the mouth of his pistol pressed up against his ear.

"Get the keys," Ryan said. "You, c'mere."

Colin got the keys from the driver's pocket, quick as a cat. The driver, pale and shaking, took a few steps forward. "Get down on the ground," Ryan said. "Now."

The driver looked at him. He had a sore on the right side of his mouth; he worried it with his teeth, staring at Ryan.

"I said, get down on the ground," Ryan said. "What's the matter? Gone deaf?"

The driver kept staring. Ryan cocked his gun. "Don't try to get fuckin' cute with me."

The driver knelt on the ground and put his hands behind his head.

"Fuckin' took you long enough," Ryan said. "You got a wife? Kids?"

"Yeah."

"All right. You lie there and think about your kids. Do what I tell you to and you'll get to see them again."

"It's all there," Colin called. The truck's headlights flicked on and off.

"Right." Ryan looked down at the man by his feet. "Give me your wallet. Slowly."

"Are you just going to leave me here?"

"Don't be a moron." Ryan looked through the wallet, taking out the man's driver's license. "You decide you feel like telling a few stories to people? It's not that hard to find out where your kids go to school."

The driver swallowed. Ryan dropped the wallet on the ground and backed away, keeping the gun cocked. He said to Colin, softly, "Give me the keys. You can deal with the other thing."

Colin slipped the keys into his outstretched palm and walked towards the driver with gun drawn, saying, "Okay, you can get up now."

Ryan left them, walked to the truck and climbed into the driver's seat. He had twenty miles to drive. The job was basically done, but he'd been doing this for too long to feel celebratory.

He turned on the radio and then turned it off. The driver's preset stations were all syrupy country junk. Silence was preferable.

It was almost six in the morning where he got to the garage. The doors opened as he turned into the driveway; he could hear the metal screech. Wayne and Chip were inside, waiting. Two cars, their trunks wide open, were at either side of the garage.

"Hey! What'd you bring us?" Wayne sounded much too cheerful, much too early. Ryan lowered himself down from the truck carefully. His back ached from sitting.

"Any coffee?" Ryan tossed the keys to Wayne. Chip passed him a lukewarm Thermos.

Wayne unlocked the back of the truck and clambered up into it. Ryan lit a cigarette. It would take…two hours? Three? He would sit and watch them unload the truck and load the swag into their cars, and it would wind up either being sold at cut-rate prices or finding a place in their homes.

"So what's it look like?" Chip said, watching Wayne rip into one of the boxes, dusty-colored cardboard with Japanese characters on their sides.

"DVD players," Wayne said after a minute. "Hey, think my wife would like one of these?"

"She likes everything, doesn't she?" Ryan said. He was too old to be unloading the trucks; now he just watched and delegated. He wondered how long Chip and Wayne had been waiting for him.

"Don't you already *have* one of those?" Chip said.

"Well, yeah, but we could always use a spare." Wayne picked up the open box and passed it down.

Ryan swirled the coffee in the Styrofoam cup. He wondered how long Wayne and Chip had been waiting for him.

"You'll do this again soon, right?" Wayne asked.

Ryan shrugged. "If something comes my way."

"Something *always* comes your way," Chip said, hoisting a box into his car.

"Maybe you'll need someone to help out next time," Wayne said.

"Heavy lifting gotten too good for you?" Chip said. Wayne just laughed.

Ryan felt suddenly paternal. Wayne always had about five hustles going at once, more for sheer love than any real need for cash. Young and hungry. He looked over at Chip. Poor bastard always was too satisfied with his lot in life.

"Colin does okay," Ryan said in answer to Wayne. "Like you fuckin' need us slowing you down."

"Oh, yeah," Wayne said. "I forgot about Colin."

Everyone forgot about Colin. He was too good at going under the radar. Ryan did the talking, stood out in front, got the praise, and Colin smiled and continued on his silent way.

Ryan had never asked if that was what he really wanted. Circumstance had put them together, and routine had kept them there.

Ryan liked routine. The job had taught him how to handle unexpected surprises and messes, but when he wasn't working he liked to know exactly how each day would proceed. He liked knowing everything would be the same day after day, year after year.

Chip barely managed to shut the trunk of his car over the boxes. His face was streaked with sweat. "I think I'll come back for the rest later."

Wayne frowned. "I don't like leaving all these boxes lying around. It looks unprofessional."

Ryan laughed. "You think Drew cares about looking unprofessional? He just wants it to get done."

Wayne looked up, the student seeking guidance. "It's okay."

"Don't worry about it. Get rid of that fuckin' truck and go home." Ryan stood. "That's where I'm going."

Wayne waved, already climbing in. "You need a ride?" Chip said.

"I'm walking. Thanks anyway," Ryan added as an afterthought. Chip saluted happily.

When he got to his apartment the shades were drawn. There was a trail of clothes leading up to the bed. Ryan kicked off his shoes and laid them beside the dresser. This was the routine. This was what made him feel comfortable.

He put his clothes away and got into bed. Beside him, Colin stirred.

"Get it taken care of?" Ryan said.

"Yeah. I just got in," Colin said, without turning to look at him. His hand was motionless on the bed, pale flesh made paler against dark sheets.

"Mmm." No time for a shower, too tired for anything real. He pressed closer to Colin, making quick inventory of him. He ran the back of his fingernails against Colin's chest. Colin lay still and silent, offering no resistance. Ryan idly wondered if he would cry out if things ever got rough, if he could sink his teeth into the pale weathered skin of Colin's shoulder or rake his nails along the underside of his belly and still receive the same reaction.

Quick fumbling in the apartment's early morning light, Colin's body the same as it always was. Ryan recovered his breath.

"See ya," he said and rolled over.

Sometimes being with Colin felt like sleeping with a shadow.

At three, the telephone woke him. Automatically he picked up the receiver by the bed. He'd trained himself to sleep like a cat; when he answered his voice sounded as though he'd been awake for hours. Colin sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, watching silently.

"Can you get down to the office?" Drew asked.

"Yeah. What time?"

"I don't know. Five?"

"Okay." Ryan hung up. He looked at Colin and shrugged. "Drew."

"Oh," Colin said. He lit a cigarette. "Any oysters left in the kitchen?"

"I guess." Ryan went to the dresser and began getting dressed. "We need anything?"

"Not really."

"Right." Ryan pulled his baseball cap over his eyes. "I'll see what he wants."

The office was in one of Drew's sporting goods stores in Alhambra. Ryan went in around the side.

The office was a mess of papers, photographs and equipment. Drew looked up from his desk and motioned Ryan to sit down.

"What's going on?" Ryan sprawled in the chair, watching Drew shoot wadded-paper balls into his wastebasket.

"Eh, I've got someone on my ass again," Drew said.

"Who?"

"Some hotshot, Proops, from up north. He's got a bar out in West Hollywood, it's called Rococo or something." Drew rolled his eyes. "He's mostly small-time, sells a little, though I hear he uses more than he sells. He's gotten bigger recently."

"That a problem?"

"It's not a problem until he starts getting in my fuckin' way." Drew's flat Midwestern voice held no anger. "He's been asking around about my suppliers. He's looking to edge me out."

"So you need me for…"

"Go talk to him. It's still too early for decisions. See if you can figure out what his game is. Take Colin if you want backup."

"Should I-"

"Just lean on him a little for now. See what his price is. Anything happens, I'll call in a few favors."

Ryan got up. "What if he doesn't have a price?"

Drew looked up. The overhead light glinted down on his glasses; they shone like steel. "Everyone's got a price."

Ryan went back to the apartment. Colin was in the kitchen, cooking something. The kitchen smelled of oil.

"We've got to go down to West Hollywood," Ryan said. "Use a little muscle."

Colin nodded. He was frying what looked like oysters, dipping them in cornmeal and dropping them into the Fry-Daddy Ryan had bought two years ago. The oysters writhed in the hot fat as though they were still living, contorting into grotesque shapes. "When?" Colin said.

"I'm thinking around now. You want to finish that?"

Colin looked at the still-twitching oysters with no apparent interest. "It's finished."

Despite the fancy name, the bar was a dive, all chipped brick and neon. Ryan walked in first, Colin followed.

He ordered a beer just like any other customer. Before he could pay for it he felt someone creeping up on him.

He turned around, surprising the man: a small, rabbit-faced man, with an incongruous red pendant hanging around his neck. Ryan stared at him until he recovered himself.

"Want to come with me?"

Ryan rose. Colin was at the end of the bar; he looked up at Ryan. Ryan met his eyes, shook his head slightly and turned around. "Yeah."

The man led him into the back room. It was decorated like an English Victorian study, with thick reddish carpet and walls lined with books. There was a large window, long and skinny, on the north wall. Greg was sitting behind the desk.

They sized each other up. Greg was the first one to speak.

"You want a drink or somethin'?"

"I *had* a drink," Ryan said. "Your guy brought me in here before I could finish it."

"Want another?"

"No."

"Suit yourself." Greg lit a cigarette. "You're with Carey."

"That's right."

"You bring anyone else here?"

"He's in the bar."

"Backup?" Greg almost smiled.

"Not really."

"So why'd Carey send you here, anyway? He not have any laundry for you to pick up?"

Ryan kept his expression neutral. He half-sat on the edge of the desk, ignoring the chair in front of it. He brushed some papers to the side and stared down at Greg's head.

Greg's mouth thinned but he said nothing. "We're not in fuckin' kindergarten. So if you're going to tell me to stay on one side of the sandbox, you can stop now."

"You're not," Ryan said, "exactly untouchable."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I think I'll take that over being someone else's messenger boy." He tilted his head. "Not even a messenger boy, really. More like a dog. Attack dog, maybe, but still…" He shrugged.

"Are you really this stupid?" Ryan said.

"What, you expect me to bow and scrape? I'm not untouchable." He leveled his eyes with Ryan. "And you're not either."

Something inside Ryan had begun to twist at the first sound of the words 'messenger boy.' He kept his hands from tightening on the edge of the desk. He forced himself to smile. "Yeah. And you're such a worthy opponent."

Greg's face softened. "We're all fair game here, right? Everyone trying to one-up each other. It's just the way it is, man."

"So why are you qualified to take over?"

"Because I'm here, aren't I?"

Ryan lit a cigarette. "This town is full of guys just like you, Proops. And we've taken care of most of them."

"Law of averages," Greg said. "You can't get rid of every little problem. Eventually something's going to bite you in the ass."

"Doesn't mean it has to be you."

"Do you ever get tired of working for other people?" Greg sounded genuinely curious.

Ryan stayed silent. He flicked ash onto the floor.

"You're a smart guy. Ever wondered what it'd be like to not have anyone tell you what to do?"

"No."

Greg shrugged. "You're in the wrong business if you like rules that much, buddy." The word 'buddy' had a cold, mocking quality.

"We're done here," Ryan said. He stubbed his cigarette out.

Greg waved his hand dismissively. "Suit yourself. Take your little sidekick and get out of here. I'm sure Carey'll have something else for you to fetch him."

Ryan paused at the door. He met Greg's eyes.

"Fetch, boy," Greg said. "Fetch."

Ryan walked out of the back room. For a moment he couldn't see Colin; he'd blended in with the crowd too well, become invisible. At last he saw him waiting by the door. Ryan walked out without saying a word, knowing Colin would follow.

He got into the car, slamming the door. Colin got into the passenger side; as soon as the door was shut Ryan took off.

Proops was gone. The arrogant son of a bitch wouldn't have time to run. Drew would have to okay it, but that wouldn't be difficult. A few pulled strings, quick calls, it would be done.

"He got under your skin," Colin said.

Ryan said nothing. He glanced over at Colin. The 'little sidekick.' Colin could run the whole city if he wanted to.

"You ever thought about not doing this?" Ryan said.

"I've got no other usable skills."

"No. I mean…" What did he mean? "I mean, ever consider doing…something else?"

"Not really."

"Why?"

Colin shrugged. "I guess I'd rather stay with you."

Ryan wondered how to respond to that.

It was dark by the time they got back to the apartment. Ryan took the stairs two at a time. He'd call Drew, say they needed to meet, get the whole thing over with.

The door to his apartment was open; the lock broken open. He could see the hint of movement inside, coming from the kitchen. Ryan wasn't armed; his gun was stored in the glove compartment of the car. He looked down the stairwell for Colin, and he heard the first gunshot, muffled from inside a silencer, a compressed pop of air.

Ryan ducked. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the bullet hole in the stairwell's plaster. He snaked out an arm and started to pull the apartment door closed; someone jammed their foot in the crack and started to pull it open from the inside. Ryan pushed against the door, using his full weight; it swung against the inside wall, connecting solidly against something. The man trapped between the wall and the door gave a strangled curse, struggling.

Ryan kept his weight against the door, side-stepping into the apartment. The trapped man managed to slide out from between the door and the wall; Ryan heard the click as the gun's hammer drew back. He shot out his hands, knocking the man's arm upwards. Again the pop of air from the silencer.

The man was advancing now. Ryan drew his arm back, punching fast; it was enough to stagger the opponent but not bring him down. He grabbed the man's right hand, bringing it up. The gun pointed at the ceiling. The man fought, hissing, Ryan praying that his height would give him the advantage, digging his nails into the other man's wrist. Ryan grabbed the scruff of the man's neck with his other hand, trying to push/drag him back against the wall, the two of them locked together in an impromptu slow dance.

Pop. Pop. Ryan froze as the man went limp and the gun fell from his hand. He dropped the body. Colin stood in the doorway, his gun still upraised. Blood pooled on the floor around the body, a small, rabbit-faced man, the red pendant around his neck slipped to one side.

Ryan backed away, out of the hall into the living room. He sat down on the couch. He would have lit a cigarette, but his hands were spasming; he didn't trust himself to hold a lighter.

Colin came in and sat down across from him, silently, asking nothing. He had never been so grateful for Colin's silence.

"It's going to take forever to clean that shit up," Ryan said when he felt strong again.

Colin looked back towards the hallway where the body was. "Guess I should call someone. Wayne?"

"I don't know, just get *rid* of it, I don't care. Son of a bitch." Ryan's hands were flecked with blood. He felt sick and furious and betrayed in some strange way. "He was at the bar. He must have been sent. How the fuck'd he know where I lived?"

For a moment, he thought Colin would respond. He sat leaning forward, hands spread in what almost looked like supplication. He said nothing. Ryan lit a cigarette and inhaled acrid smoke, trying to keep his eyes from wandering over to the thing lying in the hallway, all skin and bones and blood.

"I'm going back," Ryan said.

"What?"

"To the bar. Call Wayne, I'm going now." Anger was galvanizing. Ryan got up and went into the bedroom. He knelt down by the dresser and rooted through the bottom drawer, looking for a suitable weapon.

Colin stood in the doorway, watching him. Ryan didn't look up. "What?" he said irritably.

"You're a fucking moron," Colin said, not raising his voice.

Ryan stopped rooting. He looked up at Colin, half surprised and half amused.

Colin stared at him. "They'll kill you. You go in like Wyatt Earp and he'll shoot you. Or have someone else shoot you. And I won't be able to stop it."

"Who said I'll go in like Wyatt Earp?"

"But you will." Colin's hands hung at his sides. "You will and he'll kill you, you fucking moron. Just stop for a second. Wait."

Ryan's hand was wrapped around a box of ammunition. "I can't just do nothing."

"Don't do it like this." He had to strain to hear Colin's voice. "Ryan, please don't do it like this."

His quiet Colin. His sensible shadow. Ryan looked away. He felt as if he might drown in love, in savage gratitude. He rose and went to the doorway.

Colin looked up at him, large eyes made darker by fear and anger. Ryan pulled him close, gripping the back of his neck. He kissed Colin for what felt like the first time: a soft mouth, endlessly giving.

"You know I'm staying, right?" Ryan said when he pulled away. He kept his hand on the back of Colin's neck, his thumb brushing the side of Colin's jaw. "Right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll call Wayne."

By midnight the body was disposed of. Ryan went back to the bar.

He went around the side. If the window in the back wasn't open, he'd use the glass cutter. Wayne was resourceful that way.

The window was higher than he expected it to be; he had to slide a garbage can underneath to stand on. He climbed on slowly, trying not to make any noise. The metal felt fragile under his feet. He checked to see no one was in the office and touched the window lightly; it was open a crack. Thank God. He slid it open and pulled himself up, again, slowly, slowly. His back twinged with the effort; he would be in agony by tomorrow.

He slithered through the window into the dark office. He felt for the deskchair and sat down, breathing in new-car leather smell. Ryan pulled his pistol out and lit a cigarette. He wasn't a patient man, but he could fake it.

By the time the office door opened, the sun was coming up. Ryan cocked the pistol. The lights came on.

Greg at least had the good grace to look surprised for a second. He reached behind him for the door handle.

"I wouldn't move," Ryan said. "Anyone else out there?"

"Not yet. You got about two hours."

"This won't take that long." Ryan rose, keeping the pistol up. "So when'd you send him? After I left?"

"About then. Where is he?"

"What's left of him? I got his bloodstains all over my hallway."

"You can send me the fuckin' cleaning bill."

"How about you shut the fuck up?" Ryan was so close he could smell the cologne and cigarette smoke on Greg's clothes.

"You asked me a question, you little sparkplug. What am I supposed to do, ignore you?"

Ryan drew his hand back and cracked the butt of the pistol against Greg's cheekbone. Greg staggered, sucking his breath in, but didn't fall. His glasses dropped to the floor.

"I want you," Ryan said pleasantly, "to shut the fuck up."

Greg stared at him. A bruise was already starting to form on the left side of his face. Ryan grabbed the scruff of his neck and shoved him into the desk chair.

"Preemptive strike," Greg said. He squinted myopically across the desk. "That's all it was. Didn't work that well, obviously, but figured I had to try."

"You could have just done it when I first came. Out in the open."

"Oh, please. You think there are *rules* to how you do things? There's a *code?* Fuck that. We're all animals. Weird how you haven't learned that."

"Weird how you haven't learned your place."

"Yeah, and how'd you get your place? Think you and that fuck-buddy of yours got where you are by minding your own business and only speaking when spoken to and any of that archaic bullshit? No. You're just like me."

For a moment, Ryan thought he might strike Greg again. He forced his hand to stay still.

"Everyone knows about you two," Greg said. "Everyone."

"Yeah," Ryan said. "And I don't care." He backed away from the desk. The pistol was cocked. "Doesn't change where *you* are, does it? No matter how much you scramble, you're not going to make it. You just don't measure up, my friend."

Greg looked silently at him. Ryan smiled.

"Fuck you, Stiles."

"All talk."

"Hell, it's not like I've got anything else right now. You've got the gun."

For a moment, Ryan almost liked him. He might have been an asshole, but at least he was honest about it.

"Yeah," he said. "I've got the gun."

"Will you do it?" Greg's hands gripped the arms of the chair. "Will you just fuckin' *do it?*"

"I will. Eventually."

"Stop fucking around, then."

"What makes you think you can tell me what to do?"

Greg launched out of the chair, over the desk. Ryan grabbed his shoulder and wrestled him to the ground easily. Ryan straddled him on the floor, pistol pointed at his forehead.

"Probably," Greg said, out of breath, "should have gotten my glasses back before I tried to do that."

"You're soft," Ryan said.

"Just don't want to prolong the inevitable."

Ryan looked down at him. Greg tilted his head back, baring his throat: a dissolute prince on the way to the guillotine.

"All right," Ryan said, almost gently. "Okay, now."

The pistol was smooth in his hand. Ryan's hands were steady.

Every life ended the same way.


End file.
